Her Morning Elegance

I don't know what I love more about this, the lyrics or the video. The artist, Oren Lavie, is new to me, but feels comfortably familiar. This video seems to be sprouting up all over blogland. Treat yourself to a cup of daydream and a few minutes to soak this in.

Sun been down for days
A pretty flower in a vase
A slipper by the fireplace
A cello lying in its case

Soon she's down the stairs
Her morning elegance she wears
The sound of water makes her dream
Awoken by a cloud of steam
She pours a daydream in a cup
A spoon of sugar sweetens up

And she fights for her life
As she puts on her coat
And she fights for her life on the train
She looks at the rain
As it pours
And she fights for her life
As she goes in a store
With a thought she has caught
By a thread
She pays for the bread
And she goes...
Nobody knows

Sun been down for days
A winter melody she plays
The thunder makes her contemplate
She hears a noise behind the gate
Perhaps a letter with a dove
Perhaps a stranger she could love

And she fights for her life
As she puts on her coat
And she fights for her life on the train
She looks at the rain
As it pours
And she fights for her life
As she goes in a store
With a thought she has caught
By a thread
She pays for the bread
And she goes...
Nobody knows

And she fights for her life
As she puts on her coat
And she fights for her life on the train
She looks at the rain
As it pours
And she fights for her life
As she goes in a store
Where the people are pleasantly
Strange
And counting the change
And she goes...
Nobody knows

It's All Happening: Mondo Beyondo Update

heart in Union Square, San Francisco

At the beginning of the year, I wrote a retrospective on 2007 and a Mondo Beyondo Prospective for 2008. (Find out more about the Mondo Beyondo concept.) I named 2008 my year of Opportunity, Abundance, Prosperity, Plenty, and Creation, and made a list of intentions for how I want to live and what I want to do. I also named and claimed some Mondo Beyondo dreams for this year and beyond. I'm amazed and joyful and humbled and pleased to see several of them coming to fruition.

I wanted: "to start creating mixed media art and find my own path as a visual artist." Next week, I'll go to my very first art retreat, where I'll take a painting and mixed media class. I'm also taking a travel journaling class and attending the Superhero Life workshop. I'm particularly excited about this last one, as it's being taught by the Super Duper Andrea Scher of Superhero Designs. I met Andrea very briefly at the BlogHer Swap Meet this summer and can't wait to learn from her. Plus? Her lovely assistant will be Jen Gray, who I "know" through blogging and a few emails. (It's hard to know if the word "know" is really the right verb in these cases, isn't it?)

And as if that weren't enough, Jonatha Brooke will be providing camp fire music, Boho Girl Denise will be running around taking artist portraits, and Kelly Rae Roberts, one of my favorite artists, will be hosting a discussion about living the creative life.

But wait! There's more! I was serendipitously connected with Kelly Barton of Camp Indigo Soul to share a rental car between the airport and the camp. After connecting with her, I realized that she is the woman behind one of my favorite Etsy shops. And speaking of serendipity, I'll also get to meet the inspiring Liz Elayne Lamoreux of Be Present, Be Here and The Little Room Etsy shop. (Remind me to tell you the funny little story about how we "met" online.) I'm also looking forward to meeting Kirsten Michelle from In the Land of the Lovelies.

I have a feeling that once I get back from New Hampshire, I'll be gushing about all of these women and more, as well as the whole Squam experience. (fair warning!)

I wanted: "to uncover and be at peace with my decision about having a child." Although I haven't reached a decision or a place of total peace yet, I have had a major epiphany in this realm, which has helped me to understand the swirl of emotions surrounding this issue for me. I'm not ready to tell that part of my story yet, but the plot is definitely taking a few twists and turns.

I wanted: "to spend a week at a writers' retreat somewhere beautiful, comfortable, and nurturing." Earlier this year I reconnected with a writer friend from college (hi, Jamye!). Several months ago, she asked if I would be interested in joining her and some other women on a writing retreat. The details are still unfolding, but it looks like this little dream will come true the first week of November.

At least one other Mondo Beyondo dream is in the works and looks like it will become a reality. And that's just what I can see. What if all the others are unfurling in their own way and time? I don't know where my dream cottage is yet, but I'm sure it's out there.

There is more of the year behind us than in front of us, but there's always time for dreaming and scheming. What are you up to lately?

Life After Death

image by nicolas valentin

Thank you to everyone who left a comment on the last post, emailed me, or sent their support via Twitter. I appreciate each of you so much. The flurry of activity that surrounds death came to a head with yesterday's funeral. Now comes perhaps the hardest part of all: the denouement back into everyday life.

I've been removed from my normal routine for more than two weeks now, what with traveling across the country, spending days at the hospital, and grieving with family members. I'm weary in body and spirit. Trying to jump back into the fray of normal life has been hard. I long to get back to my easygoing routine that barely qualifies for the word "schedule." I want to cook dinner, weed the garden, sit on the patio, do some freelance work, laugh with my husband.

But this morning, I didn't even want to get out of bed. Still, I did. And I managed to take Gatwick the Catwick for one of his periodic haircuts, return library books (on time!), pick up a few groceries and household goods, and do two loads of laundry. This means that we now have some vegetables in the refrigerator and I won't have to shower with a paper towel, like I did this morning. I also wrote 19 words of an assignment and stared at my notes for said assignment.

I'm glad I spelled it all out like that, because I was feeling a little loser-ish and a lot overwhelmed. But now I see that I did accomplish something. Several things, in fact. One thing at a time. Living is always that way: one thing at a time.

What We Call Ourselves (Part 2)

image by jack dorsey

I sit down in the chair at the hair salon and Stacy, my stylist, says to me, "I have to tell you something. My name's not really Stacy." She's completely deadpan about this. I ask her if she's in the witness protection program and suggest that she not reveal her true identity. I don't want to end up at the bottom of a river somewhere. She glosses over my joke and says, "My name's not really Stacy. It's Jody."

Turns out that when Jody started working at the salon, there was already a Joni working there. And the receptionists couldn't distinguish who clients were asking for over the phone. So Jody, being the newbie, was forced to choose a new name. Thus, Stacy was born.

About a year after I started going to Stacy, Joni quit. And Stacy became Jody once more. But here's the thing: She was totally a Stacy. Even now, I sometimes have trouble remembering her real name. To me, Jody is the essence of Stacy.

What's in a name? I disagree with Shakespeare. I'm not so sure roses would still smell as sweet by any other name. Words in general, and names in particular, mean a lot to me. Just a small change in spelling affects how I perceive a word, even if the pronunciation doesn't change. For me, the words "gray" and "grey" are completely separate colors and ideas. (Grey is always much nicer, by the way.) Start mucking about with the pronunciation and my world turns topsy-turvy. An American to-may-to and a British to-mah-to might as well be completely different vegetables. (Okay, different fruits.)

What we call ourselves shapes us. Our names meld with us, becoming part of the fabric of our being. They also give us shape, acting as a sort of architecture on which other people can hang their understanding of us. Names become nearly inseparable from who we are. But what do you do if you don't feel like your name fits?

I had a friend in college named Katherine, but she went by Kat. After she graduated, she decided that Kat didn't really suit her and started calling herself Kate. That was fine for her new, post-college friends, but the rest of us had trouble letting go of Kat. I still have a hard time adding that extra "e" and remembering to make the long vowel sound in the middle. To me, Kat(e) will always be Kat, even though I honor her wish to be called Kate.

My failed attempt to rebrand myself from Jenn to Jenna wasn't the first name makeover I'd attempted. When I was much younger and people called me Jenny, I decided on "Jennie-with-an-i-e" instead of "Jenny-with-a-y." I chose that spelling, of course, because it seemed so much more sophisticated than "Jenny-with-a-y." But really, how sophisticated can the name Jenny get? It's young and cutesy. Perky, even. It's also the term for a female donkey. So essentially Jenny is an ass. It's also a type of bird, a jenny wren, which is rather sweet. (As is the Paul McCartney song of the same name.) And also? Jenny is the name of the world's oldest gorilla in captivity. It turns out that Jenny is really quite diverse.

Nowadays, the only people who still call me Jennie are a few family members and one friend from college. (She's Jessie and I'm Jennie. I think we should be characters in series of children's books about solving mysterious crimes.) The year I lived in England, people automatically shortened my name to Jenny. I'd say, "Hello, I'm Jennifer." And they'd say, "Hallo, Jenny!" I let it slide due to the accent. (That accent will let you get away with a lot. Just try it. Tell off the next person you see using a British accent and see what happens. They'll probably ask you out for fish 'n chips. Or spit on you. Proceed at your own risk.)

I never really liked my name until I discovered that it derives from Guinevere, which was Gwenhwyfar in the original Welsh. Still, I hated how commonplace Jennifer was. (This belies deep-seated insecurities, I'm sure.) When I grew out of my Jennie phase, I needed something more mature. This essentially meant that I needed something with as few syllables but as many letters as possible. And so Jennie became Jenn. I loved that second "n". I cherished it like it was my lifeline to individuality. It showed the world that although I had the most common name for girls my age, I had put some serious thought into my nickname. It gave me an edge. A certain je ne sais quoi. That's a heavy burden, even for such a stout little letter.

I still go by Jenn to almost everyone who ends up knowing me in person for longer than a month. But here's the thing: I think I might actually be a Jenna. I squashed that urge 14 years ago, but it's been floating around in the back of my consciousness ever since.

Would it be weird to start calling myself by a new name at the age of 32? Could my friends ever add that final vowel with any real level of comfort? Or would they forever be saying "Jenn" and then tacking a hasty "a"' on the end so it sounds like "Jenn...a"? In my professional and online worlds, I introduce myself as Jennifer. But when people actually call me Jennifer, it feels a bit foreign. In essence, I guess I could end up with four names: Jenn to most of my existing friends and family members; Jennie to a select few; Jennifer to business contacts; and Jenna to anyone I meet from here on out.

I'm not ready to make any changes just yet. Names get into our being. They're part of the story we tell to ourselves and about ourselves. I don't know if I can cast aside Jenn or Jennifer for Jenna. Plus, my husband is the only person who calls me Jenna. Do I want to offer up that name to just anyone, or keep it as a sort of sweet secret between us?

What do you call yourself?

What We Call Ourselves (Part 1)

image by wonderferret

It's the first or second week of freshman year. My new friends and I are at a college-sponsored freshman mixer, complete with dancing. Magic fills the air. It could be from the twinkly white fairy lights strung around the stone patio. More likely it's from the cosmic longing for love that can only be generated by amassing a group of lonely and slightly scared 18-year-olds. It feels like anything could happen here under the dark night sky.

We've been meeting new people for days now. I'm tired of introducing myself, mostly because nobody remembers my name. "Hi, I'm Jenn," I've said several dozen times. And always, always, they -- the boys especially -- forget. They remember everyone else but me. Allyson? No problem. Melissa? Check. Erin? Gotcha. Sara? Howdy. ...And you are?

Fed up with feeling invisible, I decide that the problem must be my name. I'm not a wallflower. In fact, sometimes I cringe at my own outspoken nature. I know I'm not the hottest girl in the dorm, but I'm pretty sure I'm not hideously ugly. (If I were, maybe people would remember my name. As in: You know, Jenn, the lady troll.) I realize that I'm fairly normal looking; a bit plain, I suppose. This, coupled with my all-too-common name, makes me forgettable.

Being named Jennifer is a curse that links me to thousands upon thousands of American girls born between 1970 and 1984, which turned out to be the extended high season for baby Jennifers. (The name spent 14 years at the very top of the charts.) If only I had a more interesting name, I reason, maybe then the boys will remember me.

So on the night of the mixer, I make a spur of the moment decision. I figure I need a new "hook;" a new "handle," as it were. Something that keeps me close enough to my roots that I remember my new name, but something with just enough zing to make me stand out in the beige sea of Jens and Jennifers. (Incidentally, I go by Jenn with two n's, but nobody asks you to spell it in conversation.) The round-the-circle introductions get to me and I blurt out, "Hi, my name's Jenna."

And my friend immediately blurts back: "It is?!?"

I don't remember what I said next, but I never introduce myself as Jenna to anyone ever again.

Fourteen years later, there is only one boy who calls me Jenna. My husband didn't go to college with me, but he always knows who I am.

Acts of Love

photo by dusdin (modified)

"I see your dishes are all done!"

It's a little joke my mom and I have when she comes to my house. If there are dirty dishes piled up on the counter and in the sink (as there all too often are) she kindly ignores them. But when the kitchen is free of dirty dishes, she says, "I see your dishes are all done!"

Without context, that phrase makes her sound like one of those harpy mothers who show up in bad chick-lit novels and mediocre sitcoms. But it's not that way at all.

After several years of being a married woman and trying to "keep house," I confessed to my mom that I was embarrassed my the near constant state of disarray in my home. I love a clean, orderly space. I can even create one. I just have trouble maintaining it.

At some point, I stopped trying to pretend that I was a domestic diva--at least in front of my mother. Even though she's always kept a clean, neat, and well-organized house, my mom's never been one of those white-glove-test types or one to cast disapproving looks at the stacks of magazines and mail that regularly commandeer my kitchen island and dining room table. Still, I wanted her to be proud of me, to show her that I'd learned something about domesticity from her. Finally, I had to admit that housekeeping just wasn't my main gig.

I think the joke about the dishes started as her way of giving me a pat on the back, of saying kudos on getting the dishes done--something that she knew wasn't always the easiest or highest priority on my list. In those moments, I'm seven-years-old again and she's praising my picture for the school art contest. I don't care if it's the best. I just care that she sees it.

I admire my mom's ability to stick to a schedule, complete a task, focus on what needs to be done. But I've also seen how it forces her to push herself unnecessarily when she's weary and how it makes her feel guilty if she allows things to fall below her usual standard.

She once told me, "I wish I could be more like you. You seem to be able to just let things go. I can't do that." She was referring, of course, to my ability to let dirty dishes stack up in the kitchen, to let paper pile up everywhere, to forgo vacuuming for much too long. And as weird as that sounds, it really was a compliment on what she admired in me: my ability to put myself first sometimes, to choose fun over chores, and to say "I'll do it tomorrow" if I'm too tired to do it today.

After dinner a few nights ago, I loaded the dishwasher and looked at everything left on the counter that either can't go in the machine or just wouldn't fit this time around. In addition to the usual pots and pans, I still had a bunch of plates, bowls, and silverware left over. I thought about just washing the big stuff, but it seemed silly not to do a few extra things while I was at it.

I rinsed half a dozen pieces of silverware, a little metal bouquet, under running water. The sound of forks, spoons, and butter knives clacking together transported me back to the kitchen of my childhood, where all dishes were washed by hand, all the time. Back to that eat-in kitchen with the ceramic-top stove that was once blown out of the wall when our neighbor's ex-wife came crashing through it in her car. Back to the counter tops that old Aunt Martha insisted were much too poorly lit every Thanksgiving. Back to the mint green vinyl chairs with swivel seats and legs with wheels. Back to dinner being served every weekday at 4:30 when Dad got home from the factory. Back to when Monday nights meant swiss steak and mashed potatoes, and Friday nights often meant a pizza box atop the plastic tablecloth.

I looked at my hand holding that silverware and saw my mother's hand. I felt the hard curve of wet metal that she's felt thousands of times. The moment expanded so that I was my mother and she was me. The moment contracted so that all truth and love and acts of kindness were there in that little handful of metal. I finished the dishes and thought to myself, "I see all your dishes are done."

Trust: Variation on a theme

"Trust" by Kelly Rae Roberts. (Buy this print here.)

"At the center of your being you have the answer;
you know who you are and you know what you want."
~Lao Tzu

You know how you buy a new car and then suddenly see that make of car on every single road you drive? Or you learn a new word and everyone you talk to or hear on the radio uses it at least once, and you think: How did I not know this word before? It's everywhere!

I've found that living intentionally -- being open to the life lessons and life puzzles around us -- is much the same. I'm amazed at how certain themes creep into my daily life in small and big ways. Maybe this can be explained by the theory that what we focus on expands. Or maybe we actually call these signs and signals into our life by looking for them. Chicken or egg. Either way. (I've written about this before.)

One of my current themes is Trust.

A wise woman recently pointed out to me that I seem to have trouble trusting myself.

I was stunned.

She was right.

We'd been discussing my angst over making a major life decision. A close friend had previously suggested that I'm stumped because I have commitment issues. I had to partially concede the point, but the phrase "commitment issues" made me think of single, 40-year-old men who love the nightlife a little too much. It wasn't a flattering comparison. (I'm sure she wasn't picturing me as a club-hopping pervert when she said it.)

But flipping the point of view just a bit and saying I have a problem with Trust made sense.

I looked around me and saw how I don't trust myself on a regular basis. For example...

I haven't had a decent winter coat for three years. This year I finally broke down and bought one. But I wasn't sure I really liked it. So I bought a second one to compare. I felt like I was just buying coats in desperation because I knew I needed one. And then I bought a third. I kept the tags on all of them and didn't wear any for a month, debating which coat was just right. After trying each one on a dozen times, I eventually took two back and kept the last one. I'm happy with my choice. But still, I bought three coats, trying to make sure I made the "right" decision.

How many things have I bought and kept unworn or unused until I could decide if they were right for me? If something is on clearance with a no-return policy, I probably won't buy it. Being able to take something back is my safety net.

The night before my wedding, I unexpectedly developed cold feet. I was shocked and embarrassed to be so cliché. In our hotel room, I confided my fears to my mother. What she said next may be the most profound and useful thing anyone has ever offered me: "If you weren't getting married tomorrow, would you want to break up with James?" The answer was no, definitely not. "Then I think you're just feeling a little overwhelmed about the wedding." She was right. I was afraid to trust the decision I'd already made.

My mom also stood by me through another agonizing wedding moment: choosing the dress. She patiently watched as I tried on the same two dresses over and over again, one after another in rapid succession, trying to decide between the one I liked better on the hanger and the one I finally admitted to liking better on me.

My lack of self-trust -- this quest for perfection -- showed up early in life. My dad hated going school shopping with me when I was a kid. I would take an hour to choose a pair of shoes or a stack of notebooks. I go crazy with decision-making.

How don't I trust myself? Let me count the ways: as a writer, as a friend, as a thinker, as a wife, as a political citizen. I doubt and fret, picking away at the fraying seam of my own confidence, my own knowing.

Analysis, critical thinking, and research are three of my biggest strengths. They have served me well in building a business, buying a house, and taking care of sick pets. I pride myself on my ability to see both sides of an issues, to empathize with opposing viewpoints, to see shades of grey. These skills enable me to be a diplomatic mediator and a convincing debator.

Unfortunately, these very same gifts can become my tragic flaw. I can talk myself into and out of a decision ten times over before you can say "sign on the dotted line."

The decision I'm currently trying to make doesn't come with a "do-over" option. It's not reversible. There's no turning back. It's definitely a no-returns-clearance-kind-of -decision. And it terrifies me.

I'm working hard to stop the panic, the outflow of fear. And everywhere I look, this theme of Trust comes back to me again and again, like the ocean tide.

It's here in this post called "Trust".

It's here in this post called "Don't Lose Your Trust."

It's below in this "message from the Universe," sent to me by the same wise woman mentioned above after she got it from here.

Don't you think it should work like this:

You have a desire, you dwell upon it, move with it, and presto, it manifests?

Or, you fall in love at the right time, with the right person, they fall in love, the timing is perfect, and bingo, the earth moves.

Or, you have a huge question, you turn it over to me, forget about it, and ta-da, you just know.

Me, too. Which, actually, is exactly how it does work, in the absence of fear.

Cool, huh?
The Universe

And there's the sub-theme to the Trust theme: Fear. Fear and love. Perfect loves drives out fear. There is no fear in love. Choose from a place of love, not fear. The sayings, the platitudes, the Truths go on and on. Call it the Universe or God -- It's calling out for me to let go and find peace.

I love the Lao Tzu quote at the top of this post: "At the center of your being you have the answer; you know who you are and you know what you want." I want to believe this. I want to Trust that I have the answer(s). I'll let you know when I find it.

For Love of Words

photo by starmist1

If you know me at all, you know that I love words. And if you're reading this, I suspect you love them at least a little bit, too. So in honor of words -- their beauty, their power -- I share these gems with you today.

I found this little meme floating around some blogs I love. It goes like this: Pick up the nearest book and open it to page 123. Find the fifth sentence. Post the next three sentences. (And tag five people.)

I cheated a little. I chose a book that was behind me on the bookshelf, not one of the books sitting on the desk next to me. But then I was a good girl and followed the directions. Here's what I read:

When night falls, there will be armloads of branches and flowers on the street, all neatly tied with rope, ready for the trash pickup in the morning. The women who are called to the lilacs will arrive to see that the hedges have been chopped to the ground, their glorious flowers nothing but garbage strewn along the gutter and the street. That is the moment when they'll throw their arms around one another and praise simple things and, at long last, consider themselves to be free.

(from Practical Magic by Alice Hoffman)


In the spirit of community, I tag Allyson, Melissa, Lisa, Pink Shoes, Kelly, and anyone else who wants to participate.

also...

because i like lowercase and needed a poetic shot in the arm, i bring you mr. e.e. cummings:

i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any--lifted from the no
of all nothing--human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

Jen Ballantyne and the Doctrine of Substituted Love

photo by Crystl

Two nights ago I dreamt that I got a letter from my doctor informing me that I had leukemia and that my prognosis was poor. I tried to wrap my dream-mind around the fact that I was probably going to die soon. I woke with a heavy sadness that stayed with me all day.

Underneath that sadness is another burden I've been meaning to tell you about. Jen Ballantyne, an amazing woman in Australia, is battling bowel cancer. She has been told that she has 12-18 months to live. At age 39 and with two sons, she's not ready to go. Jen has been breathtakingly honest about this journey on her blog, The Comfy Place. Thanks to the efforts of several other amazing bloggers (including Meg, Jen, and Jena), a host of lovely women have gathered around Jen to lift her up. I invite you to do the same.

I've never met Jen in person, have only recently started to read her blog, but think about her multiple times during the day. I fervently want to see her made whole, with no more pain and plenty of good years ahead of her. I wish this so strongly that I feel like she's one of my kin. That naturally leads to thoughts of how we're all connected, how our lives and stories are intertwined beyond what we can see or explain. I don't mean to sound presumptuous, but I feel like I'm carrying around part of Jen's fear, sadness, and pain. In fact, it feels like dozens of people from around the world are carrying her burden.

In his novel Descent into Hell, Charles Williams puts forth his doctrine of substituted love. He claims that we can carry another person's burden, not in a metaphorical sense, but in a real way. He says that I can choose to take on someone else's fear, carrying it as my own, and freeing the other person from it. The other person no longer has to be afraid, because I'm doing that for her. I experience the fear firsthand, but can handle it just fine because it is not my own.

Here's an excerpt from the book. In it, Pauline is terrified of meeting her doppelganger -- her exact double -- face to face. The poet Peter Stanhope tells her that he'll carry her fear for her, so that she doesn't have to be afraid. (I've included a long excerpt. Williams' writing style is rather dense and takes some getting used to. But I hope you'll stick with it to get the full impression of what he's talking about.)

"It's me," she repeated." It comes from a long way off, and it comes up towards me, and I'm terrified--terrified--one day it'll come on and meet me. It hasn't so far; it's turned away or disappeared. But it won't always; it'll come right up to me--and then I shall go mad or die."

"Why?" he asked quickly, and she answered at once, "Because I'm afraid. Dreadfully afraid."

"But," he said, "that I don't quite understand. You have friends; haven't you asked one of them to carry your fear?"

"Carry my fear!" she said, sitting rigid in her chair, so that her arms, which had lain so lightly, pressed now into the basket-work and her long firm hands gripped it as if they strangled her own heart. "How can anyone else carry my fear? Can anyone else see it and have to meet it?"

Still, in that public place, leaning back easily as if they talked of casual things, he said, "You're mixing up two things. Think a moment, and you'll see. The meeting it -- that's one thing, and we can leave it till you're rid of the other. It's the fear we're talking about. Has no one ever relieved you of that? Haven't you ever asked them to?"

She said "You haven't understood, of course.... I was a fool.... Let's forget it."
.....

"Will you tell me whether you've any notion of what I'm talking about? And if not, will you let me do it for you?"

She attended reluctantly, as if to attend were an unhappy duty she owed him, as she had owed others to others and tried to fulfill them. She said politely, "Do it for me?"

"It can be done, you know," he went on. "It's surprisingly simple. And if there's no one else you care to ask, why not use me? I'm here at your disposal, and we could so easily settle it that way. Then you needn't fear it, at least, and then again for the meeting--that might be a very different business if you weren't distressed."

"But how can I not be afraid?" she asked. "It's hellish nonsense to talk like that. I suppose that's rude, but--"

"It's no more nonsense than your own story," he said. "That isn't; very well, this isn't. We all know what fear and trouble are. Very well--when you leave here you'll think of yourself that I've taken this particular trouble over instead of you. You'd do as much for me if I needed it, or for any one. And I will give myself to it. I'll think of what comes to you, and imagine it, and know it, and be afraid of it. And then, you see, you won't."

She looked at him as if she were beginning to understand that at any rate he thought he was talking about a reality, and as she did so something of her feeling for him returned. It was, after all, Peter Stanhope who was talking to her like this. Peter Stanhope was a great poet. Were great poets liars? No. But they might be mistaken. Yes; so might she. She said, very doubtfully: "But I don't understand. It isn't your--you haven't seen it. How can you--"

....

"Listen--when you go from here, when you're alone, when you think you'll be afraid, let me put myself in your place, and be afraid instead of you." He sat up and leaned towards her.

"It's so easy," he went on, "easy for both of us. It needs only the act. For what can be simpler than for you to think to yourself that since I am there to be troubled instead of you, therefore you needn't be troubled? And what can be easier than for me to carry a little while a burden that isn't mine?"

She said, still perplexed at a strange language: "But how can I cease to be troubled? will it leave off coming because I pretend it wants you? Is it your resemblance that hurries up the street?"

"It is not," he said, "and you shall not pretend at all. The thing itself you may one day meet--never mind that now, but you'll be free from all distress because that you can pass on to me. Haven't you heard it said that we ought to bear one another's burdens?"

"But that means--" she began, and stopped.

"I know," Stanhope said. "It means listening sympathetically, and thinking unselfishly, and being anxious about, and so on. Well, I don't say a word against all that; no doubt it helps. But I think when Christ or St. Paul, or whoever said bear, or whatever he Aramaically said instead of bear, he meant something much more like carrying a parcel instead of someone else. To bear a burden is precisely to carry it instead of. If you're still carrying yours, I'm not carrying it for you--however sympathetic I may be. And anyhow there's no need to introduce Christ, unless you wish. It's a fact of experience. If you give a weight to me, you can't be carrying it yourself; all I'm asking you to do is to notice that blazing truth. It doesn't sound very
difficult."

"And if I could," she said. "If I could do--whatever it is you mean, would I? Would I push my burden on to anybody else?"

"Not if you insist on making a universe for yourself," he answered. "If you want to disobey and refuse the laws that are common to us all, if you want to live in pride and division and anger, you can. But if you will be part of the best of us, and live and laugh and be ashamed with us, then you must be content to be helped. You must give your burden up to someone else, and you must carry someone else's burden. I haven't made the universe and it isn't my fault. But I'm sure that this is a law of the universe, and not to give up your parcel is as much to rebel as not to carry another's. You'll find it quite easy if you let yourself do it."

"And what of my self-respect?" she said.

He laughed at her with a tender mockery. "O, if we are of that kind!" he exclaimed. "If you want to respect yourself, if to respect yourself you must go clean against the nature of things, if you must refuse the Omnipotence in order to respect yourself, though why you should want so extremely to respect yourself is more than I can guess, why, go on and respect. Must I apologize for suggesting anything else?"

He mocked her and was silent; for a while she stared back, still irresolute. He held her; presently he held her at command. A long silence had gone by before he spoke again.

"When you are alone," he said, "remember that I am afraid instead of you, and that I have taken over every kind of worry. Think merely that; say to yourself--'he is being worried,' and go on. Remember it is mine. If you do not see it, well; if you do, you will not be afraid. And since you are not afraid. . . ."

She stood up. "I can't imagine not being afraid," she said.

"But you will not be," he answered, also rising, certainty in his voice, "because you will leave all that to me. Will you please me by remembering that absolutely?"

"I am to remember," she said, and almost broke into a little trembling laugh, "that you are being worried and terrified instead of me?"

"That I have taken it all over," he said, "so there is nothing left for you."

"And if I see it after all?" she asked.

"But not 'after all'," he said. "The fact remains--but see how different a fact, if it can't be dreaded! As of course it can't--by you. Go now, if you choose, and keep it in your mind till--shall I see you to-morrow? Or ring me up to-night, say about nine, and tell me you are being obedient to the whole fixed nature of things."

"I'll ring up," she said. "But I ... it sounds so silly."

"It is silly sooth," he answered, "and dallies with the innocence of love. Real sooth, real innocence, real love. Go with God."

They shook hands, and slowly, looking back once, just before she reached the lane, she went out of his sight.

(pp. 96-100. Williams, Charles. Descent into Hell. Grand Rapids: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 1993.)

My friend Allyson and I tried this out once when she had a piano recital. I told her that I'd take her stage fright so she could play unhindered. As soon as she sat down at the piano my stomach turned upside down and inside out with nervousness. Sitting there in the audience, I had a full-blown case of stage fright. And yet, it wasn't overwhelming or unmanageable. I felt the fear completely, and yet it didn't belong to me. That small but significant difference made it fine, made it bearable.

Allyson played the Chopin Nocturne beautifully. Afterward, she said that her fear melted away as soon as she sat down.

An informal piano recital is one thing. Dealing with a life-threatening illness is another. But I believe we can do more than simply sympathize with Jen Ballantyne's burden. I believe we can can collectively carry it for her, taking away the fear so that she can continue on this journey unafraid. It sounds grandiose, crazy, and a little bit naive. But I believe it's already started to happen as strangers take Jen into their hearts and support her in unfathomable ways.

My Worn Out Love Story

photo by corazón girl

An old love story has been on my heart and mind for weeks now, invading my dreams, leaving me shaken and sad when I wake. In these dreams, my old lover comes to me and confuses me just like he did all those years ago. Sometimes he's cold and aloof, refusing to answer my burning questions about what happened between us; what happened to him. Sometimes he tells me he still loves me; that we should be together again.

For years after he broke my heart, I fantasized that he'd come back to me, across the distance, against the odds, despite his wife and their rumored child. I imagined that he'd unveil his reasons for leaving so unexpectedly and so thoroughly. This daydream was laced with conspiracy theories and angst-ridden confessions. I'd desperately try to recreate his soft, seductive voice in my mind, hearing him say, "I'm so sorry. I never stopped loving you."

In weak waking moments, I still wonder what will happen when I finally see him again. It's been more than a decade, but I'm convinced that he'll cross my path once more. It's not obsession; it's just something I've always known.

And I still fantasize about him sometimes, especially when he visits my dreams. But the fantasies are different now. I no longer ache for his affections. If he came bearing them, I'd be heartbroken once more for the inconvenience of it all. I'm married to a man whom I love dearly and would not leave for the old lover. Now, I just want answers, and maybe that apology. The truth would be sweeter by far than hearing that he still loves me. In the end, what I want to know is that at one time, he really, truly did.